


The Fighting Serpent

by manypastfrustrations



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accountant Crowley (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale's Name is Ezra (Good Omens), Bookshop Owner Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fight Club - Freeform, Getting Together, I will stress that the violence is not in the relationship though, Light Angst, M/M, Toxic Masculinity, Violence, that was already a tag which amuses me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23921908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manypastfrustrations/pseuds/manypastfrustrations
Summary: Anthony Crowley is a bored accountant, who happens to have a massive crush on the man he sees every day at his local coffee shop, whom he has dubbed 'angel'. He also has a dark secret, which the angel must never find out. Ever.As Anthony and the angel grow closer, his two different worlds also converge, and threaten to collide.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Hastur (Good Omens), Crowley & Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	The Fighting Serpent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Welcome. I'm trying something new here. I was watching the latest Jason Bourne film, and somehow this idea popped into my head. Please do tell me if it works.

Bored.

He was bored.

(Nothing new there.)

In fact, Anthony Crowley was so bored that he was seriously considering picking up a pencil and gouging his own eyes out, just to see if anyone would notice.

Glancing around the meeting room, he saw that almost everybody else was as zoned out as he was, fiddling with hair and clothing or glancing out the window. Or, in the case of his immediate neighbour to the right, dozing off completely, chin leaning on a hand which was propped up on the table.

Anthony jabbed Hastur in the ribs with his elbow, which earned him a muffled yelp and a vicious glare. He glanced around again, but nobody else had noticed anything out of the ordinary. He raised an eyebrow at Hastur and turned his gaze back to the front of the room, where Luc was _still_ talking. Anthony knew he should probably at least try to listen, but he also knew that there wouldn’t be any new information. Just the same old rubbish about the company’s values (money) and motivations for their staff (again, money) and what the shareholders wanted out of their investment in the company (also, shockingly, money). Basically, the same stuff that had been parroted to him every week since he joined the company nine years earlier.

Luc Morningstar wasn’t a bad boss by any means, but by God he could go on if nobody stopped him.

Anthony glanced at his watch. He was quite proud of the watch, which he had bought the previous year with his winnings from his club. It was ostentatiously modern, sleek and black with unnecessary buttons and dials as well as numbers that slid in and out of windows to display the time, date, and year. He loved it. It was also currently telling him that it was nearly half past ten, which he loved less. He didn’t want to be late.

He looked back up at Luc, who looked to still be in mid-monologue, with no chance of stopping before Christmas (it was currently July). He was _definitely_ going to be late.

Anthony was in the middle of debating whether it would be worth excusing himself to “go to the bathroom” when the meeting room door opened. This was decidedly _not_ a usual part of the weekly meetings, and it grabbed everyone’s attention. All forty-nine eyes in the room turned towards the door, then towards the person coming through it.

It was a young-ish guy, mid to late twenties. Anthony’s first impression of him was that he was weedy. His suit looked second-hand, trousers slightly too small, jacket slightly too large. The second impression was that he was new.

Luc’s speech stuttered to a halt as he, too, looked at the newcomer. “Er, hello? Yes?”

“Mr Morningstar?” the young guy said, looking nervously about at everyone staring at him. He looked back to Luc. “My name’s Newton Pulsifer. I’m the new payroll clerk? I was told to find you in here.”

Anthony almost felt sorry for the guy. It was clear he wouldn’t last five minutes in this office. It was full of people with loud voices and louder personalities, and this guy looked as though he had neither.

“Pulsifer, right,” Luc said. “Aren’t you supposed to start this afternoon?”

“I was,” Newton said nervously (God, everything this guy did was nervous), “but I got an email this morning asking me to arrive at ten thirty instead.”

Luc frowned. “Who sent you that?”

“It was a Mx Bub, I think.”

Luc rolled his eyes. “Bee. Not again! Sorry, everyone,” he said, addressing the room as a whole, “but I need to sort out young Pulsifer’s access and induction. I’ll have to pick this up again next week. Have a good weekend!” He ushered Newton out of the room, following him out.

Everyone else seemed to wake up a little, beginning to stand up and leave. Despite having sat on the other side of the table from the door, Anthony was the first one out the room. He decided not to wait for one of the lifts, which were notoriously slow. Instead he raced down the seven flights of stairs and out of the building, heading for the coffee shop on the corner.

He slowed down as he approached the Nutter Café, trying to slow his breathing so he didn’t look like someone who had raced to be there. By the time he opened the door and stepped inside, he looked almost normal.

There were three people inside the coffee shop: Anathema, the barista, smiling at him from behind the counter; a person sitting at a chair in one corner, hunched over a coffee cup; and the angel, waiting by the coffee machine, who had heard the door open and was turning around to look at him.

Anthony didn’t know the angel’s name. He always wore pale clothing, and had a bright smile and sunny demeanour which, paired with his fluffy white-blonde hair that looked a bit like a halo, had led Anthony to start thinking of him as “the angel” (although he would rather die than have anyone else know the private nickname). What he _did_ know about the angel was as follows: he got coffee at the same time and place each day; he ran a bookshop somewhere nearby; he didn’t have a mobile phone, or much modern technology at all; and he was the most beautiful person Anthony had ever met.

This morning he was wearing a pale blue shirt underneath a tan waistcoat, with cream trousers. It was fairly standard attire for the angel – the only change Anthony had noticed day-to-day was the colour of the shirt. He liked to imagine a wardrobe full of identical waistcoats and trousers, like might belong to a cartoon character. Occasionally there was a cream overcoat, but it was to warm for that today, coming into summer as they were.

Anthony raised his eyebrows in greeting to the angel, and strolled over to the counter. “Same as usual, thanks Anathema,” he said, handing her a few pounds. He got his change back, and went to stand by the coffee machine. He noticed with some consternation that the angel already had his drink in his hand, which meant that he would have less time to talk with him before he left. Damn Luc.

“Morning,” Anthony said to him, and was rewarded with one of the angel’s patented sunny smiles.

“Good morning, my dear.” That was one more thing that Anthony knew about him – he called everybody ‘my dear’, regardless of age or gender. It should have sounded patronising, but coming from the angel, it was nothing but friendly.

“We seem to have missed the morning rush,” Anthony commented, looking around the almost-empty café.

“Oh, it was quite busy when I arrived,” he assured him. “I’ve only just received this myself.” He indicated his coffee cup.

There was a snort from the other side of the coffee machine, and they both looked over curiously. “Are you quite alright, Anathema, dear?” the angel asked.

“All good, thanks, Ezra,” came the reply.

Ezra.

Ezra!

The angel had a name!

Anthony filed this information away very carefully with the other tidbits he had accumulated about him. Outwardly, he just said, “Ezra?” as casually as he could manage.

“Yes, my dear?” Ezra looked over at him, confirming that it was, in fact, his name.

Anthony shrugged. “I just realised, I’d never heard it before. Your name, I mean. We’ve been coming to the same coffee shop for, what, a couple of months now?”

“Two and a half,” Ezra answered almost immediately. He looked down, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Give or take,” he muttered.

He stuck a hand out, suddenly bold. “Anthony Crowley,” he said. “In case you hadn’t heard my name, either.”

“Ezra Fell,” came the reply, and the angel’s hand clasped around his own. His skin was even softer than Anthony would have expected (not that he had thought about holding that very hand, no, never, shut _up!_ ) but his grip was firm. He looked up at Anthony’s eyes and smiled warmly.

Two names! Anthony could hardly believe his luck. “Nice to properly meet you, Ezra.”

Ezra chuckled. “Likewise.”

They stared at each other for several long seconds, before Anathema cleared her throat. “Anthony, your coffee’s ready.”

Anthony blinked and turned to her. He realised that he still hadn’t let go of Ezra’s hand, and did so quickly, taking the takeaway cup. “Ta,” he said, and took an immediate sip, trying to brush over the fact that they’d basically been holding hands.

It was a decision he quickly regretted when the coffee scalded his tongue. “Ah, ah,” he said, swallowing it with difficulty, feeling the hot liquid burn its way down his throat. “Ouch.”

He looked up to see the others watching him with varying degrees of concern (Ezra) and amusement (Anathema). “You alright there?” she asked him.

“Fine,” he said. He wasn’t.

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll put a warning on your next one,” she told him. “Caution: hot coffee may be hot.”

“Yes, thank you, Anathema,” Anthony said, a little irritated.

“You’re welcome.” She gave him one of her most sarcastic smiles.

He was about to say something sarcastic back when he was distracted by a gentle hand on his arm. “Are you sure you’re alright, my dear?” Ezra asked gently.

Anthony looked down at the hand on his arm, and up at Ezra’s face, looking concerned. “I’m fine, really,” he said. “Just being stupid, as always.”

A gentle frown creased Ezra’s forehead. “Oh, I wouldn’t say you’re stupid,” he said.

“No?”

“No. A little foolish, perhaps, but hardly stupid.” There was a hint of a spark in Ezra’s eyes, just enough to let Anthony know that he was being teased.

The hand hadn’t left his arm.

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “You’re too kind,” he said. “So, how’s business? Sold any books today?”

“None at all,” Ezra beamed. “I did have a couple of people come in, but they didn’t manage to make it off with anything.” He launched into a tale about fending off the would-be-customers, removing his hand from Anthony’s arm to assist with his gesticulations. Anthony couldn't bring himself to mind the loss of contact. Every tale Ezra told turned into a performance of sorts, which he loved to watch.

Eventually he glanced at his watch, and realised that _oh shit_ , his fifteen-minute-break had accidentally turned into a half-hour one. “Sorry, Ezra, I gotta dash,” he said apologetically, cutting him off partway through a sentence.

Ezra’s face fell briefly, but then he turned it back into a beatific smile. “I understand. Have a lovely weekend, my dear!”

“You too, angel. See you next week.” He ran out the door and speed-walked down the street to his building.

Anthony was halfway up the stairs to his office when he realised his mistake. “Shit,” he said out loud, startling a younger woman who was passing him in the other direction. He didn’t care.

Anthony had called him angel! To his face! He had spent the better part of three months making sure his mental pet name stayed just that – a mental pet name. And then he had been stupid enough to let it slip out, the same day he had learned Ezra’s real name. “Shit,” he said again, with slightly more feeling. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit!_ ”

He was at the door to his floor now. He stopped, took a breath, tried to smooth his face into something less horrified than he currently felt. Then he opened the door and stepped into the office.

Anthony passed through the rows of cubicles until he got to his own. He slipped into the chair and pulled his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t have time to think about this, not right now. He had to get the reporting done for the client before 4pm, and it wasn’t nearly finished. He just needed to put his head down, and focus.

And not think about the angel.

“Tony!” A voice rang out from above and behind him, and he jumped out of his skin. He shoved the glasses back on and turned around to see who it was.

Luckily, it was just Hastur. Anthony relaxed a bit, thankful it wasn’t his boss coming to tell him off for abusing his break privileges (again). “What do you want, Hastur?”

Hastur glanced around, and crouched down beside Anthony’s chair. “Are you coming to the club tonight?” he asked in a low tone.

Anthony shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet. Who’s on?”

“Ligur, and a few new people. One of them calls himself ‘The Big Avocado’, apparently.”

Anthony snorted, and Hastur rolled his eyes. “I know. But he’s supposed to be good.”

He considered for a moment. Ligur was Hastur’s brother, and it had been him who had introduced Hastur and Anthony to the club in the first place. It was usually a good night when he was on. Anthony nodded. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

“Eleven thirty,” Hastur reminded him. He stood up and disappeared around the edge of the cubicle.

Anthony turned to his computer, energy renewed a little. A visit to the club would be just what he needed after a day from Hell. Blow off a little steam, soak up the atmosphere, feel a bit more human. He began to look forward to it.

He just had to get the rest of this day over with, first.

* * *

At eleven twenty-five that evening, Anthony pulled his vintage car up to the curb outside an old bookshop that, like everything else in the area, looked closed for the night. He jumped out and swaggered down the street, muttering to himself. “Avocado? No, that’s not right, that’s the new guy. Is it still insurance salesmen? Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s insurance salesmen.”

He passed a couple who gave a strange look to the muttering man, but he paid them no mind, focusing on remembering the phrase instead. He rounded a couple of corners and turned down an alley between two restaurants, making his way to a closed door halfway down. He knocked on the door and it opened, a burly man sticking his head out. “Who are you here to see?”

“Insurance salesmen.”

The man screwed up his face, and shook his head. “Can’t let you in, mate.”

Anthony frowned. “Come on, Erik, really? You know me.”

Erik shrugged. “I don’t know anybody who comes here. Face blind, that’s me.”

Anthony growled in frustration. He took a breath to argue some more, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around quickly, and found himself grateful to see Hastur for the second time that day. That felt weird.

“Insurance salesmen was last month, you pillock,” Hastur told Anthony. “Saint Beryl,” he said to Erik, who stood aside to let him in.

“Saint Beryl,” Anthony echoed, and Erik let him in with a wink. He rolled his eyes and caught up to Hastur. “Who the fuck comes up with these passwords?”

Hastur shrugged, making his way down the dark corridor. It smelled of damp, and was lit by an occasional strip light. Most of them were flickering, giving their faces a strange ghostly glow.

They started down the stairs. “And who the Hell is Saint Beryl?”

“Do I look Catholic?” Hastur shook his head and pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs.

As soon as the door opened, they were assailed with the sounds and smells of the club. There was plenty of shouting and laughing, over an undercurrent of thumping music that someone had put on to set the mood. The smell of sweat and blood had only grown stronger since Anthony had last been here, and he fought not to screw up his face in response.

The club was in the basement of a disused warehouse. The lighting was mostly dim, save for a spotlight that shone down from the centre of the low ceiling, creating the ring for the main event. Mysterious pipes ran along the concrete beams above them, dripping in some places, bot nobody paid them much heed other than avoiding the puddles underneath. There was the occasional humourous sign on the walls, saying things like “please do not lick the walls” – someone’s idea of a joke, probably, although nobody would own up to it.

Anthony looked around at the mass of bodies. There were nearly a hundred men gathering around the main ring, where the first event of the evening was soon to start, jostling each other for a good position. Some wore suits, some overalls, some were more casual. Some men were younger, some were older. What they all had in common was the same reason Anthony was here – a desire for release, a distraction from the monotony of their lives. None of the ‘real world’ could touch them here. It was an escape.

Anthony grinned as he pulled off his glasses and tucked them into the front pocket of his shirt, looking around. Yes, this was just what he needed.

He spotted Ligur through the crowd, and taped Hastur’s shoulder to get his attention, pointing across to where the other man was waving at them. They started to make their way through the crowd, and Anthony was almost immediately shoulder-checked by a short man who was wandering past, shouting out betting odds to the assembled men. “Oi!” he shouted, turning around aggressively, and the other man ducked his head and disappeared between two other bodies.

Anthony rolled his eyes, and continued on his course towards the shirtless Ligur, who was wrapping his hands in preparation. He arrived just after Hastur, and clapped Ligur on the shoulder. “How are you feeling?” he shouted over the crowd.

Ligur winked at him, and gave a thumbs-up. “Good odds!” he shouted back. “You’d better have a bet on me!”

Anthony shook his head. “I’m betting on your opponent!”

“You’re gonna lose, mate,” Ligur said.

Anthony jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Gonna find a good spot. Good luck!”

Another thumbs-up from Ligur, and Anthony disappeared back into the crowd. He found one of the bookies – decidedly _not_ the one who had walked into him before – and slipped him £50. Then he wriggled his way through the crowd until he was almost at the edge of the ring, ready to watch.

He didn’t have long to wait. Barely two minutes later, the ringmaster, Frank, walked into the middle of the rough circle drawn on the ground. He thought it sounded grand to call himself the ringmaster. Really, he was the caretaker of the building which housed the basement they were currently in, and therefore, the bloke who enabled the fight ring (or “support ring”, as he insisted on calling it) to exist unnoticed. But nobody argued with calling him the ringmaster, so he kept the title.

Frank raised one arm, and the crowd fell (mostly) quiet. “Are you ready for the first event of the night?”

There was an answering cheer from the crowd.

“On the West side, we have our old favourite, the Duke!”

Ligur emerged from the crowd across from Anthony, one fist in the air. The spotlight from above gleamed on his dark shoulders. He bounced from one leg to another, grinning. The crowd roared.

“And from the East, a newcomer, the Big Avocado!”

A new man stepped into the ring. Sure enough, Anthony had never seen him before. He was tall and stocky, easily a head above Ligur, and shoulders far broader. His gait was almost a plod, and Anthony grinned. He was confident that he had made a good wager.

The Duke and the Avocado sized each other up from across the ring. Each was confident that he was going to win.

Frank rang his bell, and the two met in the centre. Another ring, and the fight was on.

The Avocado made the first move, swinging his right arm towards Ligur’s head, which Ligur easily dodged. He countered with a punch to the other’s ribcage, and made contact with a _thwack_.

The Avocado barely flinched.

Ligur frowned, and punched again with his other hand. Another _thwack_ to the Avocado’s torso, which he again barely acknowledged.

The Avocado bared his teeth at Ligur, a big, toothy shark’s grin.

_Smack!_

A broad fist slammed into Ligur’s face, right between his eyes.

He stumbled backwards a step. The fist was quickly followed with another, right into his solar plexus. The wind was knocked out of Ligur as he gave a faint _oof_ , and staggered backwards, into the crowd around the ring.

The onlookers tightened ranks, halting Ligur’s progress and pushing him back into the ring. He looked up at his opponent, eyes slightly out of focus.

The crowd around the circle was shouting, far too many different voices to make any one out. “Hit him!” Anthony was screaming, red in the face. “Get up! You can hit him back!”

Ligur may have been smaller and squashier than his opponent, but he had one advantage, one that help him win most of the fights he had taken part in. He was quick, and light on his feet, and he was able to dodge attacks to get in close to his target. It was an approach he took now, fists up defensively to protect his head. He ducked between the next two swings and got in closer to his opponent’s chest, before going for one part of the body he knew wouldn’t be as tough.

Ligur’s knee came up between the Avocado’s legs, and there was half a second of hushed silence from the crowd as everyone drew a collective breath of shock. Several men covered their own groins in sympathy.

The Avocado bent over almost double, eyes wide with pain. Ligur took the opportunity to take a few shots at his head. He went in quick and fast, and in less than a minute, the Big Avocado lay on the ground, unconscious.

The room fell silent. The Duke stood over the Avocado, breathing heavily. His nose was beginning to bleed, but otherwise he was relatively unscathed. He looked around at Frank, and so did the rest of the crowd.

Frank stepped into the ring. He gently kicked the Avocado, who shifted and moaned faintly. Frank looked up at Ligur thoughtfully. “That was dirty,” he told him.

Ligur raised an eyebrow. “It’s not against the rules,” he said, pointing over at a poster on the wall that listed the (admittedly few) rules that governed the fights. Sure enough, none of them forbade a fighter from punching below the belt.

Frank pursed his lips. He looked around at the crowd gathered round the ring, all of whom were eagerly awaiting the decision. Then he shook his head. “Fine,” he said quietly, then louder, “Victory to the Duke!”

The room erupted into shouting. Some, like Anthony, were pleased, mostly because they could collect on their bets. But others were not so impressed.

“It’s not fair!”

“That was a low blow! Literally!”

“Disqualify him!”

They started to push into the ring, trying to get closer to Frank, to be heard. Hastur grabbed Ligur by the shoulders and pulled him safely out of the way, almost dragging him backwards through the crowd.

They reached the edge of the room, where Anthony was waiting for them. “Nice one,” he congratulated Ligur when they arrived.

Ligur shook his head, unwrapping his hands. “It wasn’t popular.”

Hastur was cackling with glee. “That’s my boy!” he exclaimed, one arm around Ligur’s shoulders. “You did good.”

Ligur glanced back at the ring in the centre, where about twenty men were still shouting at Frank. “Not sure I’ll be invited back to fight,” he chuckled.

“Worth it, though,” Hastur told him. “You took down the Big Avocado in less than a minute! Flash bastard, coming in here with that ridiculous name, and you knocked him flat!”

Anthony noticed a few club members eyeing their little group with scowls on their faces. “Uh, guys, maybe we should get out of here,” he said.

Hastur looked around, too, and nodded. “Good idea,” he said. “Let’s collect our winnings and go.”

Anthony found the bookie he had placed his bet with earlier and collected his £200. Then he found the other and they made their way out of the club together.

They passed Erik on the way out, who looked at them curiously. “What happened in there?” he asked, having heard the uproar.

Ligur grinned. “I won. Some people didn’t like it.” He and Hastur made their way out into the night air.

Erik frowned questioningly at Anthony, who took pity. “Below the belt,” he explained, then followed the Duke brothers out into the alley. “Right!” he called to them, rubbing his hands together. “Where are we going for a drink?”

* * *

A few hours later, Anthony arrived home to his apartment, several drinks down and rather the worse for wear. He got inside and leaned back on his front door, trying to right himself before continuing down the hallway.

It almost worked. He staggered along past his plants, mumbling out a faint, “Bastards,” as he did so, lest they think they were off the hook. He swerved past the punching bag that hang in the middle of the hallway, and fell against the glass sliding door to his bedroom.

With some effort, Anthony managed to slide the door open, and half-fell into the room. He managed the three steps to the end of his bed, and flopped down on top of the sheets, eyes closed. He barely had the presence of mind to kick off his shoes and undo his belt before he slipped out of consciousness.

He dreamed of Ezra Fell hovering over him, with white wings and a halo made of bright light. His face was almost glowing, wearing an expression of pure joy that he had seen once before, when the real Ezra had branched out and tried a salted caramel latte. They were flying through the air together, held aloft by the angel’s powerful, soft wings.

In his sleep, Anthony smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let you know - I have never seen the movie Fight Club, so if you're expecting the rest of this story to be anything like it, please don't be disappointed. Or maybe it'll be exactly like Fight Club. I wouldn't know.
> 
> Also, the style of fighting used in this is kind of a free-for-all, and isn't intended to be any recognised martial art or similar. This fighting ring is not a safe or ethical way to let off steam, so please don't take it as me endorsing this in real life. Fanfic is escapism, a bit like the club is for Anthony and the Dukes in this.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’m in two minds as to whether to continue this, so any feedback would be appreciated.


End file.
